Viola's Predicament
by Christina Conlon
Summary: A quick Oneshot I wrote to cure my Writer's Block.  Both Racetrack and Spot have their eye on Viola, so they have an epic Final Showdown to decide who gets the girl.  But Viola isn't one for drama, and Spot's dinner is getting cold.


**Viola's Predicament**

Racetrack Higgins glared into the darkness, desperately trying to etch out the figure of his nemesis from the shadows. This was where they had agreed to meet, right? Race checked his 'borrowed' pocket watch and frowned. It was exactly six o'clock. _So where was Spot?_

The Manhattan newsboy sighed and tucked the watch back into the folds of his vest. Maybe the Brooklyn leader had forgotten, or was backing out at the last second. But no, Spot Conlon wasn't one to run from a fight… maybe he just didn't deem it to be worth his time. Racetrack clenched his jaw. _That dog better show up! This is important._

And it was true; Race couldn't think of anything or anyone more important than Viola. Sure, she wasn't particularly special – just your average, run-of-the-mill street urchin – but he still liked her. A lot. She used to be from the Bronx, actually, living with her brother at the lodging house there. He used to see her at parties at Medda's, sitting up in the balcony with her burrow mates, laughing and clapping and singing along. He'd even talk to her on occasion, using her brother as an excuse to come up close.

She was a brunette, with stringy, unwashed, mop-like hair that never grew past her shoulders. Race smiled fondly when he remembered the time that she had gotten a little too drunk (who had spiked the punch again?), and had told him, with slurred profanities sprinkled in, about all the ways she had tried to make it grow longer – soaps, foods, magic… all that jazz. None of it had worked, of course, but she still tried.

Racetrack gave himself a light slap across the cheek to bring himself back to Earth. As nice as those memories were, he had to stay focused – remember the reason that he was _there_, standing in front of that alleyway after a long day of selling.

Two months ago, word had come from the Bronx that Viola had run off to Brooklyn to be with Spot Conlon, the burrow's newsie leader. Hearing this had broke Race's little heart, as he had found himself becoming quite attached to the young lady. Just thinking about her long nose, defined jaw, and almond eyes made his chest feel tight. Why was Spot the one to win her over? Why was it always _Spot_?

The Brooklynite must have known, somehow, about Racetrack's feelings towards his new girl, and had treated Race coldly – well, colder than usual – ever since. This hadn't stopped Race, and for two long, grueling months, the two had exchanged fiery glares, silent threats, and even physical attacks over Viola's oblivious head. Or at least, she acted oblivious; sometimes she seemed just as exasperated as everyone else who had to put up with their antics, but chose to ignore it instead.

And so, all _that_ had finally culminated to _this_ – a Final Showdown, in an alleyway right next to the Brooklyn Bridge. Spot and Racetrack had both agreed that whoever won this battle would get permanent rights to Viola, and the loser would have to back off for good.

_I have to win, _Racetrack thought determinedly, clenching his fists. _For Viola's sake._

Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, the Manhattan gambler stepped into the alley.

He wasn't exactly sure where the ominous wind that swept through had come from, or why the full moon was suddenly shining down, illuminating the alleyway, but it was all rather creepy nonetheless. Race suppressed a shiver and adjusted his cabby cap.

"Racetrack," came the voice, like a snake about to strike. Race looked up abruptly to see Spot standing, proud and tall, atop a pile of crates, his figure a sharp silhouette against the silvery glow of the moon.

"Spot," he growled back, narrowing his eyes and tightening his fists.

Spot smirked, revealing two rows of gleaming teeth between his devilish, lopsided lips.

"I applaud your bravery in challenging me," the Brooklynite drawled, twirling his cane expertly between his fingers. "But I'll make you regret that soon enough."

"We'll see about that," Race snarled, and took a threatening step forward.

"It's best if you realized that Viola belongs to me!" shouted Spot, slamming his cane into the top crate, causing the entire fixture to rattle. "And what better place to do that than in hell!"

Racetrack looked around. "Um, actually, this is a-"

"_Silence_!" roared Spot, his eyes dilating. "Do not waste my time with your pointless chatter. Now," he swiped his slingshot from his belt and fitted it with a marble; "let's finish this, Higgins. Once and for all."

Race readied himself in a defensive stance, fists up by his face and torso angled away from his towering enemy. "I… I won't loose to you!" he shouted. "I _can't_ loose to you! Now come down here and fight me like a- what?"

A sudden hand on his shoulder caused Race to freeze mid-sentence and for Spot to lower his slingshot.

Racetrack hesitated, but then slowly, slowly turned around, and found himself face-to-face with none other than Viola. And she did _not_ look happy.

"Spot Conlon!" she bellowed, hiking up her skirt and storming furiously over to the foot of the crate pile; "Quit screwing around and get down here!"

Spot and Racetrack blinked, unsure on what to make of the current situation. "Eh?"

"Deliberately climbing up there and playing the part of the villain so spiritedly, what's wrong with you?" Viola stamped her foot and let out an irritated little shriek. "That's so embarrassing! Stop messing with Racetrack!"

"Well, shoot, I got found out, huh…" Spot sighed, tucking away his slingshot and making his way down the pile. "I was being half-serious, though." He let out another sigh and hopped to the ground. "And I was having some fun, too…"

"What kind of freak finds that fun?" the girl huffed, readjusting his suspenders and brushing the dirt off his cap.

"Never mind," said Spot, flinging an arm over her shoulders and leading her out of the alley. "Say, what's for dinner?"

"Potatoes."

"Again?"

"Shut up, it's food. Although, it'll probably be cold by the time _you_ get home."

Race watched the couple saunter away, his jaw slack and his hat sliding limply from his head. Then he let out an exhausted groan and slumped against the alley wall.

_Maybe I should give up, after all…_

**You guys do not know how bored I was.**

**I seriously don't own _any of this_, I can promise you. Except for Viola, I suppose.**

**I promise I'll update my other stories soon! I'm recovering from whooping cough…**

**Please review, no matter what you want to say! :)**

**~ Christina Conlon**


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